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Warm, juice down the front of your shirt, August tomatoes

By Linda Waggener

Every summer I search for, but rarely find, the taste that immediately transports me back to the tomato rows in the big garden on the tobacco barn hill. Standing amidst the rangy vines, I would slip my hand past the clingy, deep green leaves, and ever so respectfully cup my palm under a large red tomato that would drop soundlessly from the vine, without resistence, because it was absolutely, perfectly ripe. I'd hold it up between me and the setting sun, appreciate the art and beauty of the tomato, dust it off on my shirt, bite into its warm salty meat, close my eyes and smile.

Saturday I found that taste again at a Casey County Menonite farm in a cardboard box of fresh picked, red and yellow, warm, juice-down-the-front-of-your-shirt, August tomatoes.


I had been searching for this taste all summer. It wasn't to be found in any grocery store; not even in a commercial fruit stand. I had about decided the only real tomato tastes I'd have this year would come from family members who grew them. Then I decided to make one more search at the 127 yard sale this past weekend between Liberty and Russell Springs.

On one side of a little gravel road sat a colorful fruit stand beautifully arranged, but their tomatoes looked too good to be true -- too perfect, all the same color and size. I kept walking through the booths, among bargain and antique hunters, until my taste radar zeroed in on some boxes of imperfect, dusty red and yellow tomatoes that looked real, you know, sort of like the instinct that comes from experiencing lumps in the mashed potatoes, verifying that they didn't come from powder?

Each Menonite tomato had its own unique shape, was unpolished and had an occasional ding or dirt smudge. The yellow ones looked like Siamese twins, joined at the head. The red ones, some large and lighter red, some smaller and deep red, varied in size -- they had the look of tomatoes that came off the vines at the gentle urging of human hands, not selected by mechanical pickers.

I bought eight pounds of tomatoes at fifty cents a pound. Then, while my husband wandered in search of Schwinn bikes from his childhood and rare books, I respectfully cupped my palm under a medium sized red tomato that looked absolutely, perfectly ripe. I held it up between me and the setting sun, appreciated the art and beauty of the tomato, dusted it off on my shirt, bit into its warm salty meat, closed my eyes and smiled.

For a moment I was ten again, Mom and Dad were working in the nearby tobacco patch, my little brother was off with his bb gun taking a break from harassing me, my trusted dog Bitsy was by my side and the whole world was out there waiting to be discovered, right after I fueled up with that perfect tomato.---------

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This story was posted on 2004-08-09 08:36:12
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Real tomatoes: imperfect shape, perfect taste



2004-08-09 - Columbia, KY - Photo Linda Waggener. EVERY SUMMER I SEARCH for the perfect, take me back home again, tomato tastes. I found them at the 127 yard sale last weekend.
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